


The Emperor

by orphan_account



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Greek Mythology, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Angst, Cunning Tony, Dark Tony Stark, Gen, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Mythology References, Not A Fix-It, Omega Tony, Omega Verse, Pack Dynamics, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Psychological Horror, Ruthless Tony, Tony-centric, Were-Creatures
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-01
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2018-12-09 20:48:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,798
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11676795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They abandoned him in the frigid, hypothermic depths of Siberia's avaricious maws of death. He spends an eternity wrapped in darkness, recalibrating and rebuilding. Days later, a new beast emerges from the depths and tears down everything they ever stood for.





	1. The Champion of Ares

**Chapter I - The Champion of Ares**

* * *

Abandonment was a bitter companion that tasted like a pack of singed cigars lumped together in his mouth. He knows this, and has felt more comfortable being in this state than he can ever care to recall in his entire mortal life. He wished that were not so, but Starks, like his old man said once with an air of impertinence, "Starks are made of iron." Well, he wasn't. He bent, he rusted, he shattered. The molecular arrangements of his sanity, his trust, his heart - dissolved into the gaping maws of his own abyss, which stared back at him. His purpose and the foundation of his life, humbled down by the hurricane created by the very same hands of his accursed family. Never has a great man like a Stark been so humbled in front of many eyes.

Leering vultures, circling the skies overhead, eyes ablaze with hunger. The feathers were a foreboding beast in of itself, for their muted colours and dratty state of wear were a heraldment of impending doom. Darwinian evolution has camouflaged them from his own cunning. He would have applauded them for their ingenuity. But that was for another lifetime. There was a wound to avenge. Like the great Buck, a half breed that wandered away from his homely house in Santa Monica Valley only to be plunged into the unforgiving reality of Mother Nature's Arctic trails when she was at her most vicious primordial state, Starks were creatures borne of ancient leanings that surfaced in times of great need.

The call of the wild was difficult to ignore, for his blood was rousing itself from a long period of hibernation. His blood _sings_ and the Wild beckons to him. Flashes of memory, the faintest stirrings of a Life before civilization. The rush in the blood, the piercing cries of felled prey. The contractions of his heart, mimicking the frenzied stampede of spooked wildebeests fleeing from the kings of the savannah. The trickle of blood from between canines and incisors, sated and ever more hungry.

He has done this before. Just like Buck, the wolfdog.

This wasn't anything new.

He has simply _forgotten_.

"Mr. Stark," JARVIS said.

No. Not JARVIS. Vision.

"What," he replies. He cruelly crushes the brief blossom of agony that sheers his heartstrings. He folds his hand into a savage fist.

"Colonel Rhodes has asked for you," the enhanced entity says, tall and proud. Like a man. He's a grown man, now. His one and only Junior.

The only other loyal friend. Abandoned him.

How much more does he have to _sacrifice_ before he gets peace?

He closes his eyes. He swallows roughly, shaking his head.

Everyone left. Everyone always leaves, in the end. Abandonment was the only constant, and change is the same variable he can always expect. He is always left dangling in the middle of an abyss, mewling and helpless like a kit abandoned in the throes of winter, blindly seeking the warmth of its mother. Sometimes, in the days where he rolls over and stares bleerily at the ceiling, he doesn't know. He doesn't know if he was already his own man, or whether he was still the naive young adult waiting for his parents to come home. He doesn't know. He doesn't know _anything_.

All that he ever was - was he still living under the shadow of their passing? It was hard to distinguish. His life, an eternal wash of monochrome and life-draining slashes of blacks and greys, his life pulse throbbing and thrashing like the patient who refuses to be sedated. A robust, wild mustang of the forgotten Wild West, legs still kicking even when he was muzzled. He's been thrown around, passed to and fro across the field, from endzone to endzone. He's had his fair share of scars, scuffles, losses.

Was there anything left for him?

This battle-scarred, life-weary veteran.

"Mr. Stark," the entity prompted gently.

He lifts his head. He snarls privately to himself.

"Tell him I'll be up in a minute," he says.

Wolves never groveled. That resiliency and pride was what always captivated him about those creatures. Beyond Crow's cunning and Raven's quiet persistence, Wolf was always steadfast and immovable when it was boiled down to the most important things. He needs some time to rediscover himself. He needs some time to learn to be _selfish_ and _hungry_ again. He needs some time in the dark.

Before he emerges from the den and chases _their_ treacherous, gazelle feet. Jaws snapping, curved fangs glistening madly under the moonlight, the night air streaked with their treacherous blood. The Life Force oozing out of their slashed jugulars, as he rages and thunders down on their spooked heels, Rage Incarnate. The mortal vessel of Ares, blessed with vengeance and bloodthirst.

He will not be humbled so viciously again.

He opens his eyes, gazing at the FedEx package on the table.

He won't chase them down in Wakanda. Oh, yes, he knows where they are. He knows how they hide. He knows how _desperate_ cornered gazelles act. The Wolf is too cunning, too battle-experienced, too intelligent to even think of doing so. Without even noticing, _they_ have already lost half the war against him. Simply by obeying their prey instincts.

The Black Widow might be cunning, might even sting and deploy a few surprising maneuvers for the White Knights across the chess board. The Falcon might even pride himself for his sturdiness or loyalty to any cause. The Scarlet Witch might even foolishly believe she is untouchable, simply because of her cheap parlor thicks or lucky accident with the manipulation of physics. The Hawk might even think he can still protect his nest, his brood. The Winter Soldier might even delude himself into believing that he can escape his past, forever believing that he can elude his bloodlust.

But in the end, even both good men and evil men fall prey to the jaws of Hunger. Hunger is an ancient deity that has always prized the most vicious, most cunning, and the fittest of anything and anyone. Hunger never favors any side, or any arbitrary civilized law that seeks to quell her natural influence over all animal behavior. Hunger is the alligator hidden in the tumultuous growls and bellows of the raging Amazonian river, eternally patient and calculating. Hunger waits for fatigue and weariness to latch on to anything, before annihilating their existence in one fell swoop of a talon. Hunger is what drove mankind to accept the gift of fire from the Titan Prometheus. Hunger is what led to the complete decimation of prideful civilizations, and the appointing of new monarchs.

He can be her new Champion. He stagnated and suffered, because he didn't have Her favor. But now, when the stars and planets were aligned under his favor for the first time in forever, he has a fighting chance. The Wolf has the opportunity of a lifetime. For he is in the right position at the right time.

To shred _them_ apart.

Ares is beckoning to him.

The Wolf within him, grins.

* * *

Thirty minutes ago, he made a decision.

A few hours later, he obliterates the package.

A few more hours after, he tears down their former living quarters.

On the same evening, he terminates their connection to his financial funds.

At midnight, he ensured the permanent separation of the Hawk from his brood.

A day later, he stows away Iron Man.

A few days later, he wins back Stark Industries.

A few days after that, he shuts down the Initiative.

A day after that, he feeds Ross to the wolves in the Raft.

A week later, he appears in the media, vocal for his support on the Accords. It wins him media favor. His stocks soar. His social capital increases.

In the second week, he trashes the Shield in the greedy maws of the sea.

By the third week, he has regained his iron grip over his turf.

By the end of the month, the Wolf is ready to hunt.

* * *

He gets an audience from Wilson Fisk, a few days later. One other gazzelle in his turf, asking for his support. Appealing to the Wolf's appetite, promising something this or something that. Foolishly believing he will grant them his blessing, by continuing to have a hand in the suffering of his denizens. Underhanded and two-faced, like his former family. The Gazelle, not cunning enough, not fit enough. Easy prey. Easy source.

The voice of Ares hovers over him.

The Wolf mocks the Gazelle, before devouring him.

"Mice have no business wandering to the Den," it laughs, guttural and strident.

* * *

He gets the attention of the Black Panther, one day, during one of the UN conventions.

The Wolf cocks his head.

"Will you chase them down, Mr. Stark?" the Feline boldly inquires, blunt and forward, in front of the ears of many. A few heads turn their way.

He lifts his chin, smiling the Wolf's grin. "Why would I, your Highness?"

The Feline sidesteps. "You have motive. You have an incentive. I know what happened, Mr. Stark."

The Wolf grins. "Let them fret, let them have their worries. It makes no difference to me."

"Is that a threat?" the King challenges.

"An inevitable occurrence. Let them have their peace, King of Wakanda. Let them believe a lie, for a little while longer. When they come out of your protection, I'd just like to forewarn them - they're fair game for the carnivores within the legal framework," he says, calmly and resolute. The monarch's eyes flash with a momentary glint of a strong emotion. "They are starved, your Highness. And they are waiting."

"You count yourself as one of them," it comes out as an accusation.

The Wolf _grins_. "Not at all, my King."

The Wolf is too cunning.

He's not amongst the throng.

The Wolf is already amongst _them_.

He doesn't have to do anything.

All he has to do, is wait.

For they will undoubtedly wander into his snares, in time.


	2. Brother of Deimos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was always there. He never left.

**Chapter II - Brother of Deimos**

* * *

The Wolf pulls his lips back into a divisive snarl, the corners of his maw upturned and distorted into the craggy forms of herculean rage. His great mane hisses against the force of the gale, defiant and steadfast. The shrewd gale scratches against the jagged scars seared and branded across the length of his eye, eliciting a guttural sneer that intimidates the forces at play. The ancient force of nature carries himself forward with dignity and assurance, primordial pride reeking through every pawstep taken. The Wolf opens his maw, voice reverberating and steady.

"I will not grovel before you, Ares. Neither am I interested in playing your games, Brother," the Wolf intones, a cross between Bear's dominant growls and Lion's reverberating bellows.

A steady cackle sounds in the distance.

"Cunning force of nature, you have always been. Brother, I have so missed your presence. The world has become less of a stage since your last reincarnation into this mortal realm," the Wolf narrows his eyes at the invisible grin reeking off each word. "The Daughter of Themyscira has provided some semblance of amusement. But none are truly a match. Never have I found a more exciting era since the age of the Titans. I am, however, more interested in what has brought you back from the slink of Death. Was Hades not hospitable enough, Brother? Or has some new toy captivated you? I am dying to know."

"We both know that I can never truly perish, shield Brother. How can I, when I am the foundation of the essences that guide their very Lives? Hunger, appetite, competition - it will never fade away from their sons and daughters. I am too imbedded, too intertwined in their bloodlines and legacies," the Wolf sneers, sightless eye glinting madly, the depths swirling menacingly. "Unlike your brethren, I do not need constant validation to ensure my survival. I run with the course of their blood after a Hunt. I breathe the air they breathe. I kindle their Flame even in the throes of death. I am what made you emerge from the Void. I am the one that gave you the fire for Life. Hunger is the unbreakable cycle of the Ouroboros. They worship my essence, simply by listening to the inborn instincts I lavished upon them."

"And that is why Olympus fell, Brother. Of all of them, I was the one who is most alike to you. I was single-minded in purpose. They did not listen to my pleas. They feared me. The glory of the hunt, the high of the battle. Embodying savagery at its finest," Ares grins in the blanket of the darkness. "Foolish of them."

The Wolf laughs, strident and unrelenting. Delight dances across his pelt when the fallen deity is silenced into shock and submission. The air crackles with a hiss, a sharp disapproval. "You fell, little pup, because you ignored your other leanings in favor of but one attribute that I represent. Savagery is meaningless without the rudder that is Calculation," his sightless eye blinks. The one eye with sight shifted to the side, slitted and narrowed, the irises swirling. "Do not presume you have earned my favor, pup. Rampant displays of bloodshed in the name of violence for violence's sake - does not appease me. You have become what you are because you exercised that value so. All of you will never truly replace me. For you are but mere derivatives of what came before."

"Why have you come before me then, if not in exchange for something?" Ares says, amused. "The deity of the Hunt never bends for anyone."

The Wolf grins.

The silence shudders.

The Wolf opens his maw. "I have come to take what is rightfully mine."

The cries were muffled by the sizzling sensation of Wolf's frenzied feeding.

"From nothing you were born from. To the abyss you shall return," the Wolf sneers. "Thank you, Brother, for your blood sacrifice. Thank you for cherishing and guarding the last of my gifts. You have done excellent work, little wolf. It is time."

In a distant metropolitan city perched on a drifting continent, the last descendant of Olympus awakens from her haunted slumber. She rises from her bedding, feeling a cord of dread tying knots around her gut. She lifts her gaze beyond the glass panes of her window, plunged into sudden weariness. The livid streaks of Rao peeks through the line of the rounded horizon, hungry and demanding.

From the wings of the Abyss, the Wolf grins.

"A worthy champion, I have found."

* * *

The soldier abruptly awakens from his dreamless sleep. His shoulder muscles twitch and lock into tight knots as he rolls on his side and glares at the wall opposite his bedding. A cord of dread slithers around his organs and his stomach lurches. He scowls as the hair on his nape bristles at the onset of a malicious change in the atmosphere. The smell of the battlefront stings his nose and his eyes swim and tumble at the distorted sights of the battlegrounds that haunted his savage past. A primal memory of terror awakens from the recesses of his mind.

On the other side of the Veil, the Wolf opens his maw.

"I have found you, at last," he grins.


	3. The Sabre Tooth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The conflict between the Wild and Man have always existed in his memory.

**Chapter III - The Sabre Tooth**

* * *

The Wolf was _interested_.

The waves of anticipation that rode off the mortal in droves, the sizzling energy of the desire to take back what was, the roiling desperation of his revenge boiling in the depths of his bowels - the sheer visceral quality of the _energy_ was sufficient to attract his attention, and it tempted him with the desire to fan the growing flames. The ancient deity predating the Cosmos, knew of the sheer importance of the role that one small spark can have in tectonic changes in mankind's history. Wildfires and natural calamamities still struck primal terror into the souls and guts of many filthy animals, and he _revels_ in the power to infect his influence over them. The Wolf can be felt and heard even from the gentlest whispers of the breeze that comb through the furs of the evergreen wilderness. The calamities and forces of Darwin were as old as he was.

But this ambition? This willpower? It was not on a scale that he has found and savored since the eons of the Titans. Ares pales in comparison to this potential. This _mortal_ , he was so much more. The chaotic energy surrounding his soul, was eerily reminiscent of the juvenile stage that he once had when the Days were still young and when the Lost Generation of deities still stalked the lands.

The mortal shows much promise. Unbridled and abandoned with grievous wounds of the highest order, the mortal nevertheless managed to cultivate a phenomenal amount of will to persevere. The mortal retained the desire and bloodlust reminiscent of his appetite the Hunt. Each passing day, the Wolf can gently press his curved fangs against the visions and images of the former pack members that betrayed _him_. He can whisper into the chrysalis and guide its growth. But in the end, the course of evolution still had its own flare. Tantalising visuals and fantasies of vengeance lurked at every twisted corner of the mortal's darkening mind. A spirit and primal mindset the Wolf has sorely missed in the current age of domesticity and complacency. The desire to _rend_ hierarchies and blaze a new path for pioneer species, was a sentiment the deity echoed well.

And so, the Wolf keeps his head low and stalks at the edges of the mortal's life, slitted eyes pinned on every twitch of the muscle and ears fixed on every subunit of sentences that fly through the air. He occupies every nook, cranny and turn of the road of Life, never failing to inject a little more of his influence in every domain. The ancient deity curls his upper lip at every banal display of shallowness and duplicity as he shadows the mortal at social gatherings, his war-sheared muzzle tremoring in barely chained agitation. With every passing hour and cycle of Rao in the skies, he grins in savage delight at the growth of their symbiotic connection. The Wolf can sense the visceral tug on his Essence. Even by his influence alone, it was as if the maturing cub can never be satiated. The growing cub was experiencing the first taste of Life that haunted his forefathers, the Life that once ran through the blood of the Lost Generation, long when they were still mudlarks fighting over scraps of remains.

The mortal's Hunger was growing by the day.

The Wolf curls his mangled lip in ironic amusement. The ancient deity abruptly halts in his tracks, nostrils flaring in a furious display. His great, obsidian mane straightened into a series of mountainous peaks, wrathful and anticipating. His shredded tail thrashes in a dominant display of power, slitted eyes narrowing as he levelled his snout with the horizon. The gale from the east ruffles his mangled pelt, a foreboding omen carried by the paths of the wind. The Wolf grins.

In a bygone era, he once was the revered Emperor of the Hunt. The ultimate apex predator. Towering above even the herculean figures once worshipped by the heat-deprived humans of Prometheus, some of the Titans were wise and shrewd enough to even remember to pay tributes and respects to the ancient deities that have long passed on their mantles to their descendants. Born from the violent and cathartic birth of the Cosmos they all dwell in, the Wolf's brethren was now counted as the lost generation of deities. Even amongst the halls of the Titans and members of Olympus, even the mere mention of his brethren has all but devolved into the whispers of a deranged spectre. Forgotten, dishonored, disdained. And for that, Mount Olympus and her descendants have paid a hefty price for their betrayal - in blood and memory. The tortured souls of the Lost Generation and remnants of Olympus, were now sitting at the pit of his stomach.

It was a moral lesson of old.

Hunger gives life. Hunger also takes it when you don't feed it.

Fairly simple, in his eyes.

Hunger can take many forms. And as long as any creature is fit enough and strong enough to continue surviving, they were welcome to draw from the well of his favor.

But regardless of his Darwinian finesse, even the Wolf was still a participant in the cyclical nature of evolution. The Wolf was far past his prime, and his momentary resurrection was only a mere symptom of a more pressing matter. The scars and wounds from epochs distant from living memory, were still his burden to weather through. And his vessel was now falling apart. He will not be able to retain his current form. In a far simpler time, the Wolf might've been able to withstand the forces and pressure. But with the advent of a societal structure hellbent on repressing his natural gifts to mankind, the practitioners of his Gifts are dwindling by the era.

The deity _snarls_ at the perversion of the natural hierarchy. The magnitude of this betrayal was unacceptable. He will not stand for it. Mankind has created chains for themselves, leashing their natural instincts and appetite for freedom to a pole of corrupt burueacracies and systems that promoted duplicity. The system exploited the poor and the desperate, bestowing illusions of security. The desire to _hunt_ for one's aspirations, have all but faded from mainstream society's bloodlines. Self imposed limitations have conditioned cubs and pups to sheep and goats. Examples of strength, once praised and highly regarded by the ancients, is now vilified as symbols of evil and oppression. The honor and pride that comes with protecting and raising a pack, of nurturing the next generation, of leading and guiding them to a state of order - all but gone from mankind's blood. Cowardice has replaced strength as the favored trait in this artificial environment of false hopes and false promises.

The Wolf snaps his jaws.

They will remember. Their hearts will remember, that there once existed an age where individual freedom and strength of will were prized more highly than anything else. They will remember, that they have survived the harsh realities of the wild, through more direct means of taking what they wanted. They will remember, that strength was what protected your pack and cubs. They will remember, that the law of the survival of the fittest still stands true. They will remember, what it once felt like for them to witness the return of his presence in the mortal realm. They will remember, the olden days when he finally walks amongst them once more.

His original incarnation will soon fade to the aether.

But his avatar, will remain.

And with it, he will never truly perish.

"If only you could see us now, Rao, old friend," the Wolf laughs, bloodstained fangs curved under the glare of the moonlight. "The Last Son of Krypton, the Daughter of the Amazon, the Bat of Gotham. The Avengers. The Terror of New York. The children of the Yggdrasil. How far have they all fallen, to have only produced this handful of warriors. And I, too, will succumb to the Void. But you, old friend. You found cunning paths to outlast even the greatest of us."

The deity lifts his mangled muzzle to the skies. "But not even you could escape Hunger. In the end, you collapsed to it. And I am Hunger. But even Hunger must be satiated. Until such a time where it is needed again."

"I will see you all again, in the next incarnation," the Wolf _grins_. "And when I do, the cycle will repeat."

The Wolf is the master of his own fate.

And he has found a worthy champion.

* * *

"Mr. Stark, the purpose of this conference is to decide the future of the Avengers," the King announces, sleek and graceful even amidst the mounting tension growing amongst the UN delegates congregated within the cavernous room. Shrewd eyes sweeped across the gathering, narrowed and wary. "Putting aside the events at Leizpig and the Raft, I ask that all members of this delegation that you be willing to set aside personal grievances. In the name of international security and prosperity, we must be willing to look past recent tragedies in order to create a more stable society for our children of tomorrow."

He casts a wayward glance to the side of the cavernous room, eyes half-opened in a deliberate display of indifference and casual annoyance. His hackles bristled as disgruntled murmurs radiated through the tables around the delegation, wary glances occasionally tossed his direction. He implants his elbows on the handrests of the chair and leans back, calmly pressing his aching back against the cushioned surface of the chair. The animal within his chest curls his lip and laughs mockingly at the scorching gaze directed his way from his former pack members, his heart rate calm even as the heat within the room is escalating. He abruptly cranes his neck and embeds his own assessing gaze in their direction, chin lowered and upper lip upturned slightly in disdain. His brows lowered dangerously, eyes unblinking even as the rage amongst their numbers escalated.

**Insolent sheep. Not worth our scorn.**

"Mr. Stark? You have been prompted by the delegation for a response. What is -"

**Our kind hunts in the shadows, amongst the reed stalks. We are unrelenting in our blows and bites. They will remember. They will remember us. They will remember that there once existed beings like us. Never afraid of knowing what they were owed and never afrais of taking what was theirs'.**

"King T'Challa, members of this delegation, I think we all know the pink elephant in this room, don't we? Let us stop using euphemisms and flowery talk to stalk around the core issue. We all _know_ what the true issue really is," he says softly, violently interjecting the monarch's torturous speech length. "The ability of the Initiative to respond appropriately to these kinds of threats is dubious and questionable at best. Influential decisions of the highest consequence, is left in the hands of a man who has otherwise proven himself reliable to doing one thing and one thing alone - if he doesn't agree with your concept of a legal system, then he will find any means necessary to overthrow the existing system. And that is dangerous."

"And what of your involvement in weapons -"

"Let me rephrase, _man-cub_ \- how about your involvement in mental manipulation, HYDRA's experiments, or not to mention, the list of atrocities that you have committed under Strucker's command? Tell me, _child_ ," the juvenile Sabre Tooth rises from his perch, mangled lips upturned in disgust, muzzle upturned in scorn. "What do you know of _accountability_? What do you know of _war_? What do you know of the world, beyond the lies and deceit fed to your pathetic ears? What do you know of Stark Industries, beyond your childish and immature perspectives and petty thoughts of vengeance? What do you truly know, cub? How will you feel to know that it was the Ten Rings that had an involvement with your little tragedy? It hurts to know that your litte truths are just another set of lies, isn't it? Does it take away from your banal desire to get revenge? That was all you wanted, isn't it? A convenient figure to pin the blame on."

"Stop laying the blame on someone else! It was _your_ name on it! _Your name!_ " the cub screeches.

The Sabre Tooth _laughs_. "What's the matter, cub? Can't handle the brute force of truth? All of you can fact check it. After all, SHIELD has already collapsed and thus, released all of their intel into the Web. I have nothing to hide, cub. Nothing. Unlike you," he smiles. His eyes briefly flicker to a distant observer stationed on the opposite side of the room. Female, elegant, warrior-like. Her glistening eyes were narrowed at him, as if she were a raptor lying in wait for him to commit specific fault. "Let us all stop dancing and preening each other's feathers, shall we? Go on, tell them, Wanda. Tell them, how you manipulated a traumatized _omega_ into having a role in Sokovia that you were _directly_ responsible for. Or, will you force me to extract one of you and tell the delegation your deepest and darkest secrets? I wasn't the only one who suffered visions underneath that accursed talent of yours."

" _Shut up!_ -"

"With all due respect, Maximoff, I would very much like to know what Mr. Stark is talking about," the woman says in a low voice, eyes flint-edged. "In this conference, we are not letting anything slip past our notice. Anything and everything presented will be subject to the closest scrutiny. Safety of our orders are of paramount importance. And we cannot do that as a world if you don't _learn_ the importance of _cooperation_."

"All of you are playing into his fucking hands!" Barton hisses. "This is _precisely_ what he wants - to gain more power and renown as the hero that locks up the oh-so-evil Avengers. Take a good look, UN delegates! The man standing in front of you was once a known weapons broker to the military! _Weapons_! Weapons development! What does that say?"

"Didn't it ever to occur to you all that the world is what it is today because of the existence of paradoxes and polar opposites?" he tilts his head, as if he was explaining a mathematical axiom in words that can only be digested by a toddler. "The push and pull of these polar opposites is what provides the balance needed for the world. Men of peace create engines of war, government assassins train in the arts of killing to prevent an uprising. Intelligence officers spy and gather blackmail on neighbor countries they are on friendly terms with. You see, mutual distrust is everywhere. You can't remove it from the cycle. It exists. It doesn't care about what some lonesome, retired ex-agent thinks."

"And what _is_ your definition of reality then, Stark?" the unidentified woman challenges. "What will this world look like?"

He clamps his jaws and shrewdly sweeps his gaze around the cavernous expanse of the room, the dampened lighting morphing the delegates into an organized gathering of crows, vultures, pythons, wolfdogs, and alligators. The rounded shape of their protruding eyes glinted madly with the restrained anger of a wronged creature. He curls his tongue around the edge of his teeth, gaze flickering back to the prim woman's pristine profile.The ebony eyes of the corvids were attentive and unrelenting in their desire for political entertainment. The UN assembly was listening. Inadvertently, their instincts have made them defer to the natural authorities of the world. Occupying the helm were but a handful of men and women that have clambered to their positions of power through their mutual contributions to society. The prim woman was a camouflaged theropod of the Cretaceous, her slitted eyes eagerly betraying her appetite for _something_ \- something hideous that was just waiting to be dragged out into the open, for the corvids and vultures to feast.

This was a mutual predator cut from the clothe of the old ways. The only leverage that works on their kind was an offer made to directly appeal to basal nature. The Wolf has his razor vices and unabashed indulgement of primal leanings. _This_ woman, craved for a purpose. A purpose, a reason, to continue holding her faith in this pathetic species that were just barely clinging on to a rock in space for their dear lives. The Wolf sniffs and snorts derisively. She has lost someone, a mate, a soul match. Annihilated, not by natural selection but by the hands of a species reckless and callous enough to wage war on a planet they all share. This child was once a garden of youthful hope and enthusiasm. Now, it was only her promise to her soulmatch that was keeping her Darkness at bay.

This _warrior_ , was weary and hungry.

"The world I have in mind?" he pulls his upper lip. He swivels in his chair, the coal in his heart rustling and sizzling with the force of his ancient anger. Unrest coursed through his blood, flooding his chest with heat. "It is a world of equal opportunity for all. I am advocating for a world where the voices and the wills and the fears of her people are acknowledged and respected. I am advocating for a world where the ordinary civilians in it are not restrained or afraid to step forward and _claim_ what was rightfully their's. They all have a right to know that they will feel safe, provided for, and protected. And _if_ that means that we take the hard road, crush a few fingers, and offend some soft-hearted pricks - _so be it_. I'm sure you agree, won't you? This world we live in, pampered to the dimes already. Soft, useless, with no survival value. That's why people die all the time. We have men that _lack_ the balls to step down from their false ego and false sense of entitlement to even _think_ of considering the wellbeing of the many. And _that_ is the case we are dealing with today, ma'am. Men, who aren't fit to have and keep respect for."

"A world where you take and take from someone weaker than you, is not a world I am risking with you," the soldier intones, his cerulean eyes ablaze with a stormy whirlpool of conflict.

"Men of history that claim to know the right way are the biggest tyrants in the history of our species, _Captain_. There is nothing shameful about _fighting_ to preserve the _right and freedom_ of every child, woman, man on this Earth - fighting to preserve their right to _not_ be afraid of a backlash just because they _wanted_ to guarantee the wellbeing of their packs, _Steve_ ," he lowers his chin and curls his lips. "Or are you so concerned with some _perceived_ threat that will come your way in the name of some made-up conspiracy that _somehow_ apparently everyone is involved in on? Shortsighted people like you are the reason natural selection phases you out of our lineage. You present a threat to the mutual safety of every cub to a pack system. Step aside and let the real _people_ talk, Steve. At least we might have a chance of coming to _some_ kind of pragmatic agreement that will benefit our pack systems and nations. _We_ are ready to cooperate and _exchange_ for support. Why should that process stop just because of _one man_?"

Man. He was of Man. Not the Wild.

**We all remembered what a man-cub can do. This man, has never been a reliable alpha to begin with. Too human, he has never fallen behind the ancient pack systems that are still vital to this day. Our pride, our _family_ , was torn to pieces because of him. Do we want to risk this? Angering our electorates? Injuring our ties with the other pack systems in the world? The Wild will always reign in these lands. In our bloods, even if it was but a distant memory to these cubs. Man-cubs like him, will never understand. How could they, when the Wild has never sang in his Blood? An Alpha, of Man's making. Never having tasted the relish of the Hunt. The flesh of Man will always yield to the Wild.**

A human alpha. Synthetic, unnatural.

"And maybe that's why we still have wars igniting all across the world, Stark," another man says, quiet but coated with a familiar layer of hostility that he knows could only belong to _one_ man. "Pack systems. Forcing people to behave and fit into an archaic hierarchy that has proven to do more harm than good. There was a reason the _tribal_ system of Man, an early pioneer species of the Pleistocene era, was adopted and slowly spread across the planet. It is a system based on each person's ability to contribute. And not a system based on an archaic model of savagery, strength, or lust of power. Alphas became no better than Betas and Omegas. Every one's worth was determined by the contributions to the _tribe_. Or did you forget that you are speaking to a gathering of _people_ that have already adapted to this system?"

Hank Pym. Another man-cub. What do they know of the Lost Generation?

**Spoken like a true man-cub. Pampered and useless.**

"You'll be surprised at the efficiency and commonality of the _pack systems_ that are still in place today, Pym. Because that is the truth. But then again, what does a _man-cub_ know of the realities of living under such a system?" he intones. "And contrary to what men like you think, the pack systems are not anything what they told you about in school."

"Pack systems were headed by an Alpha and Omega that have proven themselves the fittest and most capable of all the other members in the pack and or pride," a quiet, confident baritone voice cuts in. Tony swivels his gaze to the corner of the gathering, picking out the obsidian shade that could only belong to one other person of importance of his standing. "Followed by a series of Deputies that act as the next line of command. Who in turn is supported and backed by a team of able-bodied members that are a mixture of all three Designations. They used their strengths as a symbol of earning the trust of their packmates. The military still defaults to type of this structure, and look at what they've done. They raised the most efficient and effective fighting force in the world. There was an exponentially small chance of disagreements, fights, and mutinies ever breaking out."

"The dynamics of these packs and prides were governed by the Alpha and Omega," the King of Wakanda cuts in. "It is based in equal partnership. If both Alpha and Omega see eye to eye, the pack thrives. If it is a partnership governed by brutal dominance of one side at the expense of the other, then this violence is reflected across the pack. And that, I'm afraid, is the source of the misconception. The seats of authority set in stone the dynamic of the pack systems. The violent atrocities that have been fed to you all were a gross misunderstanding that ignores the suffering of the other ancient packs that have thrived on the opposite case. The violence you learned of was a result of groups of deranged and orderless savages that has clouded our true understanding of these ancient systems. These savages, that have done away with the tenets brought forth by the Emperor of the Hunt, an ancient deity that first introduced the system to us. Wakanda still stands by this system, and we will continue respecting it and honoring it as our forefathers have done. As a result of their disobedience, they have cast a rift between those borne of the Wild, and those borne of Man. And ignited an age dominated by violence and brutality. You will be wise to keep your tongue, Mr. Pym, for you may insult one of our audiences for your slight against the pack systems that have led us here today. We are descendants of these survivors. Those that survived the long period of violence and bloodshed led by these savage groups. All of us. The Wild and Man, alike. You'd be wise not to smear the meaning and importance of their sacrifices."

"The delegation we have today is comprised of both heritages. We must respect the views of all. And I'd ask that you do the same, Mr. Stark, Captain, and refrain from further antagonizing those borne of the Other Blood. Both heritages have their own sense of pride and customs that we must respect and preserve," the King continues. "The Emperor of the Hunt would've been widely displeased at the turn of recent events. The deity that we owe all our lives and respect to. Without him, the pack systems and secondary genders as we know are nonexistent. This gift is what has created so much diversity for our species. We may not all have long memories as the gods of old, but nevertheless, it does not excuse the negligence on our part. They deserve our reverence and respect. Whether or not you abide by my views or the views of anyone else present in this delegation, mutual respect is deserved by all parties present."

The Sabre Tiger within him growls in vehement agreement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tony's shapeshifting form is the extinct species _Smilodon_ , and for a short background history of his family's bloodline, all I can say for now is this; the Starks usually favor the forms of canines as opposed to felids. The form of the Wild blood for all applicable descendants are not genetically selected by Mendelian factors but rather they are shaped into a final form in adulthood, after a brief period of unstable transformations. The Wild forms that they take are a symbol of their innate natures and desires, so I'll leave the meaning of Tony's form up to interpretation. Tony hasn't accessed his other form since he came back from Afghanistan, and because of the overt influence of the made up deity I shamelessly inserted into the fic, there will be drastic physical changes to his other form. This will reflect his change of heart.
> 
> But one thing remains the same.
> 
>  
> 
> Tony is still a badass fucker.
> 
> Oh yeah.


End file.
